5. Vivienne #2
“Everything and anything,” I say. “I want to work with every great chef who’ll have me.
Travel. London first, I think. I’m talking to someone at a restaurant in Mayfair.
Then the East Coast, maybe. Then wherever the next best thing is.
” I gesture vaguely at the future. “I want to move constantly. I want to be in a different kitchen every year until I’m too old to stand.
And then maybe I’ll just cook in a chair!
I want to learn until I physically can’t anymore. ”
He’s watching me with his elbow on the bar now, his chin resting on his hand. “And then?”
“And then maybe I’ll know enough to do something that matters.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his eyes searching my face.
“Do you think you’ll want to settle down eventually?”
“Maybe.” I answer lightly, the way I always do. “Or maybe not. I’m not built for staying in one place, Cal. I never have been. I get itchy.” I pick up my glass again. “It’s just how I’m wired.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “I know you’re not.”
I know you’re not.
Four words and he says everything I need to hear.
It’s not a complaint or a challenge. He just says it like it’s just a fact about me that he’s accepted so completely it doesn’t even need weight behind it.
And that’s almost worse, somehow. Someone who argues with you about it is someone who thinks you could be different and they can change you.
Someone who just knows — that’s someone who has been paying very close attention and loves all your flaws anyway.
I feel it then. This tugging thing I’ve been not-quite-feeling for months, or maybe the whole year, or maybe since the first week when he leaned over in the middle of a demonstration and murmured an observation so dry about the instructor’s technique that I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing.
It lives just underneath the surface of every conversation we’ve had, and right now, with his knee three inches from mine and the bar warm around us and graduation behind us and everything uncertain ahead, it presses closer.
“You hate that about me,” I say.
“I don’t hate it.” He says it without hesitation, but his jaw tightens slightly, there and gone.
He exhales and looks down at his glass. When he looks back up, his eyes meet mine.
“I think you’re going to be extraordinary.
Whatever you do. Wherever you are.” He takes a deep breath and looks out at the bar before returning his gaze to mine.
“I just —” He stops again and runs a hand through his hair, stalling.
“I keep trying to picture where you’ll end up, and I can’t. And that bothers me.”
My throat closes. “You could always text me.”
“Lane, I’m going to text you every single day for the rest of your life. That is not what I mean and you know it.”
“What do you mean?”
He holds my gaze. The bar keeps going around us.
I’m aware, with a specificity that feels almost clinical, of the exact distance between his knee and mine.
Of the warmth radiating off him in the close space.
Of the way he’s gone very still. Neither of us has moved away from it.
We’ve been not-moving-away from it for years.
“I mean,” he says carefully, like he’s choosing each word, “that I’m hoping — when you’ve done everything you want to do and you’ve been everywhere you want to go — I’m hoping that when you finally run out of places to go —” He stops and takes a deep breath.
He looks almost embarrassed by his own sincerity.
“I’m hoping you end up somewhere with me. ”
The noise of the bar goes behind glass, everything turning muffled.
“Cal —”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He shakes his head slightly. “I’m not asking you to promise anything. I know who you are. I would never want to —” His hand draws small circles on the bar top then stills. “I just wanted to say it out loud once. While we’re still here.”
I look at him closely then. The backward hat.
The small scar along his jaw from a burn in the third week of school.
The dark blue eyes that I have spent years carefully avoiding for too long because I understood, very very early, that looking at them too long would break down every wall I have ever built.
I already know in some unavoidable way that I’m going to leave and keep leaving, and I can’t be what he’s describing. People like Callum — people who are rooted and sure and missing their families every single day from across an ocean — deserve someone who can meet them where they are. And stay.
I know all of that.
But it does not stop me from leaning forward and kissing him.
I lean forward like I’ve forgotten every cautious decision I’ve ever made. Like the very precise walls I spent years building don’t exist anymore. His hand comes up to my jaw, drawing me out of my head and into this moment, and I stop thinking and just am.
It isn’t tentative, and that surprises me.
I expected a careful start, a hesitant first inch, but his hand fists in my hair almost immediately, and the kiss is unhurried and confident, tasting like cheap red wine mixed with the promise of everything I’ve been denying myself.
I feel years fold into it — every almost, every not yet, and every not quite.
It’s so easy. God, it’s so easy it feels like we’ve been doing it forever, like my body has been aching for this specific permission, and now that it has it, I know exactly what to do with it.
He pulls back slowly, reluctant to end the moment, his breath brushing against my lips in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
“Hi,” he murmurs, the softness of his voice cutting through the thick tension.
A small breathless laugh escapes me. “Hi.”
“So.” He’s still holding my face, his thumb resting lightly against my cheekbone, while his other hand settles warm at my waist like it’s always belonged there. “What does that mean?”
I bring my hand up, covering his where it curves against my jaw, feeling the roughness of his fingers.
I trace the small scar along his knuckle from a knife that slipped, the memory flooding back.
I was there. I pressed the clean side of my apron to it and told him he was fine when we both knew he needed stitches.
“I don’t know yet,” I lie, my voice trembling slightly.
I know exactly what it means. That’s the problem.
I’ve known for months. Maybe longer. The truth looms over me like a storm, and saying it out loud makes it real. Real things can be lost, and I am not ready to lose this before I’ve even let myself have it.
He nods slowly, understanding in his eyes, and I see that he’s already accepted my hesitance.
He seems to settle rather than deflate, like he’s been prepared for this answer and has already made peace with it.
“Okay,” he says, the corner of his mouth curving in a way that makes my heart flutter. “I can work with that.”
Across the bar, Marco knocks something over and swears loudly in Italian.
Eileen shrieks with laughter and grabs his arm.
Suddenly, the room comes crashing back in around us.
It’s loud and celebratory and a little chaotic and ours in a way that only this particular group of people in this particular city in this particular time can make something feel like ours.
Callum’s hand drops from my face, but he doesn’t move back.
His knee presses against mine, and I let myself lean into it just slightly, just enough to feel the warmth of him.
I’m hoping you end up somewhere with me.
I turn it over while the night keeps going.
When we get pulled back into the group and the wine keeps flowing and someone starts a toast that devolves into a twenty-minute argument about whether Escoffier is overrated and Dominic gets increasingly more passionate about the subject while Eileen falls asleep briefly against Marco’s shoulder and then denies it.
Callum’s voice is in my ear the whole time.
His laugh is above the rest of the noise, and his arm is occasionally against mine when the bar gets crowded and everyone shifts closer.
I think about London and the Mayfair restaurant and the chef I’ve been emailing and the tiny flat I’ll have to find and the kitchen that will be brutal in completely different ways than this one and how much I’m going to love it.
I think about a restaurant on the water in a town I’ve never seen but feel like I know.
I think, Not yet. But maybe someday.
Maybe.
The bar begins thinning out with Dominic having made his case about Escoffier to nobody’s satisfaction.
Callum turns toward me after everyone leaves, his gaze intense. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers trailing down my jaw as he kisses me again.
This kiss is different. The first was a question lingering between us.
This one is an answer and a promise in one.
His hand slides from my jaw into my hair, fingers tangling in the strands like he’s been craving this moment for so long, and now that it’s finally here, he can’t hold back.
He pulls me closer and I let him, surrendering to the heat that blooms between us.
I feel the shift move through me like a key turning in a lock, and something deep within me releases and opens wide.
I place both hands on his chest, feeling the warmth of him through the fabric of his shirt.
He makes a low sound against my mouth, primal and hungry, and the kiss transforms. The tenderness morphs into urgency.
It’s heat and teeth, a frantic exploration, as if we’re trying to bridge the gap of years lost. His hand fists into my hair, pulling me closer, dragging me to where he wants me to be exactly.